Claimed by the Devil in a Suit
He doesn't believe in love.
He believes in ownership.
Lucien Vale built his empire the same way he destroys his enemies-quietly, strategically, without mercy. To the world, he's the youngest billionaire in Europe. To those who cross him, he's something far darker.
They call him The Devil in a Suit.
When struggling art conservator Amara Rossi unknowingly restores a painting tied to one of Lucien's most dangerous secrets, she becomes collateral in a war she never saw coming. To protect her-and control the damage-Lucien does what he does best.
He claims her.
What begins as a contract meant to silence her turns into an obsession neither of them expected. Amara refuses to be owned. Lucien has never been denied.
But behind Lucien's cold precision is a man forged by betrayal, raised in violence, and taught that love is a weakness exploited by enemies. And behind Amara's defiance is a woman who has spent her life surviving powerful men.
Their chemistry is volatile. Their power dynamic intoxicating.
Their connection? Terrifyingly real.
Because the devil doesn't fall in love.
He possesses.
And when Lucien realizes he would burn empires for her, the question isn't whether he can keep Amara-
It's whether she can survive being claimed by him.
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Chapter 3
Chapter Three
The café was small, discreet, and usually too quiet to attract attention.
Amara chose it intentionally.
Neutral ground. Public visibility. Witnesses.
Control.
She arrived first.
Her hands were steady as she removed her coat and chose a table near the window. Not exposed-but not hidden either. She ordered an espresso she didn't particularly want and placed her satchel on the chair beside her.
Her pulse, however, betrayed her composure.
She wasn't afraid.
She was alert.
There was a difference.
The door opened exactly seven minutes later.
Lucien Vale entered without fanfare, yet every subtle shift in the room betrayed his impact. Conversations softened. A barista glanced up twice. Two women near the counter straightened unconsciously.
He did not acknowledge any of it.
His focus found her immediately.
That alone unsettled her more than the surveillance confession.
He walked toward her table with measured steps, coat falling perfectly along his frame. No visible security inside-but she felt watched nonetheless.
He stopped across from her.
"Miss Rossi."
"Mr. Vale."
He removed his gloves slowly before taking the seat opposite her. No handshake offered. No unnecessary pleasantries.
Just presence.
Up close in daylight, she noticed the faint shadow beneath his eyes. Not exhaustion exactly.
Insomnia.
Men like him did not sleep easily.
"You chose well," he said quietly, glancing once around the café.
"I prefer environments where people behave," she replied.
His gaze returned to her.
"People always behave," he said. "It's their motives that don't."
The waitress approached. He ordered black coffee without looking at the menu.
Of course he didn't need one.
When they were alone again, silence stretched between them-not awkward, but charged.
"You said safety concern," she began directly. "Explain."
He studied her face before answering.
"There are financial networks embedded in private assets," he said calmly. "Art is particularly useful. Untaxed. Unregulated across certain borders."
"I'm aware."
"The crest you uncovered," he continued, "is linked to a man named Adrian Kovar."
The name landed heavy.
"I've heard it before," she admitted. "Your CFO mentioned it during the call I overheard this morning."
His eyes sharpened.
"You overheard a call?"
She lifted a brow. "You weren't subtle."
A flicker of irritation passed across his face-at himself, not her.
"Yes," he said. "Kovar is under investigation. He and my father had... dealings."
The way he said father was precise. Stripped of warmth.
"And this painting?" she asked.
"It was acquired privately fifteen years ago. Shortly before my mother disappeared."
The shift in tone was nearly imperceptible.
But she caught it.
Your mother.
Something tightened in her chest.
"You believe this crest is tied to her?" she asked carefully.
"I believe Kovar embeds leverage into everything he touches."
His coffee arrived. He didn't drink it.
"If that painting contains routing information," he continued, "then anyone who identifies it becomes a liability."
Her stomach tightened.
"You're assuming someone else knows I found it."
"I don't assume," he replied.
"Then how do you know?"
A pause.
He held her gaze.
"Because Whitmore moved funds yesterday."
Her brows knit. "Your former CFO?"
"Yes."
"And that connects to me how?"
"Whitmore has ties to Kovar. He accessed dormant holding accounts linked to assets from my father's era."
Understanding dawned slowly.
"The painting," she said.
"Yes."
She leaned back slightly, absorbing the implication.
"You think my imaging request triggered something."
"I know it did."
A ripple of anger moved through her.
"So now I'm what?" she asked. "Collateral?"
He did not flinch at the word.
"You are exposure."
The bluntness stung.
"I didn't ask to be involved in your financial war."
"No," he agreed quietly. "You didn't."
"Then remove me from it."
His gaze sharpened.
"I intend to."
She exhaled slowly. "How?"
He finally lifted his coffee and took a measured sip before answering.
"By containing the information."
"Meaning?"
"You will suspend restoration immediately."
Her spine stiffened.
"That painting is under contract."
"It is under my contract."
"And my reputation is under mine."
The faintest trace of approval flickered in his eyes again.
"You're concerned about professional integrity," he said.
"Yes."
"You should be more concerned about personal safety."
"Stop saying that like it's inevitable."
"It is."
The certainty in his voice unsettled her.
She leaned forward slightly.
"Let's be clear," she said quietly. "No one has threatened me."
"They won't."
"Because?"
"Because I am here."
The words were not boastful.
They were factual.
She studied him carefully.
"You believe your presence alone is deterrence."
"It is."
A beat passed.
"And what happens if I refuse to suspend restoration?"
His gaze darkened, not in anger-but in calculation.
"Then I will acquire the atelier."
Her breath caught.
"You can't be serious."
"I am always serious."
"That's coercion."
"That's prevention."
She felt heat rise in her chest.
"You don't get to solve problems by swallowing everything whole."
"It has worked so far."
"And what does it cost?" she shot back.
For the first time, something like a crack appeared in his composure.
Small.
Almost invisible.
"Everything," he said quietly.
The word lingered between them.
She hadn't expected honesty.
It disarmed her more than arrogance would have.
"You don't even know me," she said more softly.
"No," he agreed. "I don't."
"Then stop treating me like a chess piece."
His gaze held hers longer this time.
"You are not a chess piece," he said.
"Then what am I?"
Silence stretched.
Outside, traffic hummed past the window.
Finally-
"You are a variable," he said.
Her jaw tightened.
"That's not better."
"It is to me."
She almost laughed in disbelief.
"You're impossible."
"And you are inconvenient."
The corner of her mouth twitched despite herself.
"Inconvenient," she repeated.
"Yes."
"Because I won't just comply."
"Because you don't intimidate easily."
"And that bothers you."
"No," he said calmly. "It interests me."
That was more dangerous.
She looked down at her espresso cup, then back at him.
"If I suspend restoration," she said carefully, "what happens?"
"You relocate temporarily."
Her eyes snapped up.
"Excuse me?"
"Until this is resolved."
"Relocate where?"
"With me."
The word landed like a detonation.
Absolutely not.
"I don't know what kind of women agree to that," she said coldly, "but I am not one of them."
His gaze didn't waver.
"This is not an invitation."
"It sounds like one."
"It is a precaution."
She stood abruptly, chair scraping softly against the café floor.
"I'm not moving into your house."
He remained seated, unshaken.
"You misunderstand."
"Do I?"
"Yes."
He rose slowly.
The shift in height, in presence, changed the dynamic instantly.
"You would not be moving into my house," he said quietly.
"You would be under my protection."
Her pulse spiked.
"That sounds worse."
A faint, dangerous edge entered his expression.
"You assume protection implies control."
"Doesn't it?"
"It implies responsibility."
Their gazes locked.
The air between them felt charged now-less about business, more about something unspoken.
She stepped closer without meaning to.
"And what do you get out of this?" she asked softly.
"Containment," he replied.
"That's not what I meant."
A pause.
Something shifted behind his eyes.
Then-
"You're the first person in months," he said quietly, "who has spoken to me without calculation."
Her breath caught.
"That's not my responsibility either," she said.
"I know."
The honesty unsettled her again.
She searched his face for manipulation.
Found none.
Only precision.
And something else she didn't yet understand.
"I won't be owned," she said firmly.
His jaw tightened.
"You won't be," he replied.
"Because if this is some power demonstration-"
"It isn't."
"Then what is it?"
A long silence.
Then-
"It's necessity."
The word hung heavy.
Before she could respond, his phone vibrated.
He glanced at the screen.
For the first time since she met him-
His expression changed.
Not anger.
Not control.
Something colder.
He answered.
"Yes."
He listened for exactly three seconds.
Then his gaze lifted to hers.
Sharp.
Focused.
"Understood," he said, and ended the call.
The café noise faded into background hum.
"What?" she demanded.
"They've accessed the imaging request," he said evenly.
Her blood ran cold.
"Who?"
"Kovar's network."
Her stomach dropped.
"How do you know?"
"Because the server you submitted through just pinged a mirrored offshore account."
Her heart pounded.
"I don't even know what that means."
"It means," he said calmly, "you are no longer hypothetical."
The world seemed to tilt slightly.
"You said they wouldn't-"
"They won't harm you," he interrupted.
"But they will attempt contact."
Her mouth went dry.
"When?"
His gaze didn't waver.
"They already have."
As if summoned by the words, her phone vibrated on the table.
Unknown number.
Again.
Only this time-
There was no mistaking it.
It wasn't Lucien.
She stared at the screen.
Then at him.
For the first time since this began-
She felt something close to fear.
Lucien's voice was steady when he spoke.
"Answer it," he said quietly.
"And put it on speaker."
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7.2
Betrayed by her sister. Killed by her husband.
Reborn, Sarah returns with one goal-revenge.
This time, she won't be the fool.
And with the Knox, the most dangerous man by her side...
she'll ruin them all, and take back everything that belongs to her.
Promotional line: They killed me once. This time, I'll destroy them first.
8.4
Palermo does not forgive.
Neither does it forget.
When Guerrero Valenti, the feared leader of the Vikings, vanished, the city exhaled a dangerous calm-but only for a moment. In the shadows, enemies waited. Rivals sharpened their knives. And one woman bore a secret that could ignite every street in the city.
Lucia Romano carried the child of a man who had disappeared into legend and rumor. A son who had not been claimed, not protected, not named.
The city whispered of him with venom: the bastard of the Vikings.
The boy was fragile, but he was a storm waiting to erupt. And every night, Palermo tested him. Masked men tried to snatch him from his crib. Fire, steel, and blood became his lullabies. Yet he survived. Every threat only sharpened his instincts, every scream hardened his mother's resolve.
But whispers spread faster than steel through the night-rumors of a man returning. A shadow that would claim everything, sparking fear in every heart:
Guerrero Valenti.
The father who abandoned him.
The legend whose name alone commands obedience.
The storm that will rise, carrying vengeance, blood, and fire.
And when he comes,
Every man who dared call the bastard his enemy will fall.
Every street, every roof, every whispered corner will bow to the son of Guerrero Valenti or be washed in blood.
This is the story of survival.
Of fire and steel.
Of a mother and her son.
Of a father's return.
Even the earth is getting ready to absorb blood ... the blood of those who call the legitimate son of the Vikings a "BASTARD", and collect necks........the necks of those fallen by the sword of GUERRERO VALANTI.
And upon his return Heads will bow to the one they called a BASTARD .
9.8
After three agonizing months, I finally found my fiancé, Barnett Spencer, at a gala at The Plaza. He had vanished without a trace, and I was on the verge of losing my mind.
But when I saw him on stage, my blood turned to ice. He had a strange woman tucked into his arm, and a lawyer announced that a recent accident had erased the last six years of his memory-our entire relationship.
In front of a sea of reporters, Barnett looked right through me with freezing hostility.
"Miss, you have the wrong person."
He then declared that the woman beside him, Joslyn, was not only the person who saved his life but also his new, legal wife. The news hit me like a physical blow, and the camera flashes swallowed me whole as reporters shoved microphones in my face, asking how it felt to be publicly dumped.
The man I had loved for six years had turned me into a national joke, a delusional stranger trying to cling to his wealth.
That night, as I was drowning my humiliation in a martini, his ruthless younger brother, Dixon, found me. He slid a marriage contract across the bar.
"Marry me," he said, his voice a low rumble. "I want his shares. You want his pain. We both get what we want."
Fueled by alcohol and a burning need for revenge, I grabbed his pen and signed my name. I was no longer the abandoned fiancée. I was about to become my ex's worst nightmare: his new sister-in-law.
9.1
The best way to get back at a cheating bastard? Make him sick to his stomach for the rest of his life!
Days before her wedding, Corinne caught her fiancé cheating with his coworker in what she thought was their future home.
Furious, she tore everything apart, ended the engagement, and decided on a bold revenge plan.
To make him regret it for life, she set her sights on marrying his powerful uncle. Confident in her scheme, she tried to win over the cold, untouchable man, only to realize too late that she had mistaken his identity.
The man she married was far more dangerous than she imagined!
Corinne decided to make a quick escape. "Let's get a divorce. We're clearly not right for each other... "
He cornered her with a knowing smile, "Not right for each other? Funny, that's not what you said last night in bed. Want me to remind you how wrong you are?"
8.2
Denice Copeland's son was dying of leukemia, and his only hope for survival was a savior sibling.
But the wealthy Montgomery family offered a cruel ultimatum. To get the experimental treatments her son desperately needed, Denice had to conceive a child naturally with Jasper Montgomery—her dead husband's cold, estranged twin brother.
Jasper treated the arrangement like a clinical transaction, taking her body without a shred of tenderness and threatening to cut her son's medical care if she disobeyed. The ultimate betrayal happened when Denice collapsed from exhaustion at his hospital. Jasper's glamorous partner, Kira, suddenly appeared and took control of Denice's dying son. Kira made the little boy call her "Mommy" and ordered security to throw Denice out.
"I don't know you. I've never seen you before in my life."
Jasper stood between Denice and her own son, coldly defending the woman who had stolen her child.
Denice was completely shattered. She finally understood she had never been anything but a cheap stand-in for Kira, a convenient breeding vessel for the Montgomery bloodline. Stripped of her dignity, her past love, and now her only child, her mind violently fractured in her freezing, mildew-stained apartment.
Abandoning the last shred of her pride, she sent Jasper one final, desperate text.
"Tonight. I'm ovulating. Come."
Then, she stepped fully clothed into a scalding shower to drown herself, forcing the man who destroyed her to finally face the wreckage he had made.
9.4
I was bleeding out on the cold ER table, my body failing, while the hospital’s blood bank sat empty.
My husband, Clayton, stood just outside the glass doors, watching me die with the terrifying indifference of a man deciding on dinner.
When the doctor begged him to sign the transfusion consent form to save my life, he didn't hesitate. He took the pen, slashed his signature across the Refusal of Treatment form, and turned his back on me to answer a call from the woman he truly loved.
As my heart monitor flatlined into a long, piercing scream, I watched him walk away to comfort his mistress over a thunderstorm, leaving his legal wife to rot in a body bag.
I was nothing to him—a vicious, disposable obstacle in his perfect world—and he ensured I left with absolutely nothing, freezing my accounts and cutting off my life.
But he made one fatal mistake: he left me alive.
I survived, and as I lay in the dark, the pathetic flame of my love for him snapped and died, replaced by a cold, broken promise.
If I survived this night, I would make sure he bled for every second of the hell he put me through.
I ripped the IV from my arm, stood up on my prosthetic leg, and walked out to start my war.